


put down your drink

by TheBrokaryotes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bottom Keith (Voltron), Clubbing, Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, M/M, One Night Stands, Strangers to Lovers, Top Lance (Voltron), i started this 50 years ago and forgot about it, pidge is the ultimate wingman she just doesnt know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10766769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrokaryotes/pseuds/TheBrokaryotes
Summary: The real world is outside, in the silence. In here, life happens within hours. You’re born into the neon lights, you’re raised at the bar, you’re schooled by your drinks, you make a career out of forgetting your problems to the same monotonous dubstep song over and over again, you fall in love for an instant with a drunk stranger, and you die the moment you step outside. In here, Keith has a choice; play this crazy game of life or lose.Keith never lost.





	put down your drink

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was based off of that furry song Lone Digger but the fic in no way whatsoever has a single thing to do with furries i promise you that much

Keith stuck to the wall of the pulsing room, arms crossed in defense of his heart and back pressed up against the cool, grimy vinyl panels. His mind was numbed from the shots he’d downed earlier, the dull buzz not enough to alleviate his loneliness, his irritability. He swirls the glass of rum and coke in his hand, gaze dropping to it and watching idly as the liquid catches the strobe lights and flashes against his already burning eyes.

This wasn’t his scene, by a longshot he could never call it that. There were too many people, hot bodies and confused souls, drunk with rebellion and on ecstasy in both a figurative and literal sense. The bass pumped up from the floorboards into their pounding auras and energized their flesh, emitting from them in laughter and sporadic movement. Keith watched as they scintillated in time, glowstick bracelets and necklaces too dim on their own and too bright altogether.

Each song sounded exactly the same, and Keith could not discern if he despised it or could tolerate it. It grated at him the same way chewing gum in a silent room would, except now it was surrounding, all over, not isolated. He couldn’t get away from it if he wanted to.

He’d long forgotten why he’d come here. Depression probably played some part in it, long and drawn out desire for human interaction. His friends—if he could even call the lunatics who had dragged him here that—would have called it the “Skin Hunger”. They’d been gone since he arrived, disappearing amidst the throngs of human flesh and still-maturing hormones of teens and twenty-somethings. He’d no predilections to follow after them, content to seethe against this wall until the next person needing a ride home—or a punch in the face—approached him.

Keith’s eyes had scanned the entire joint at this point, but his gaze kept sliding back to focus on the center pit. Though as a multitude the people were captivating enough, there was one energy, one singularity that kept on catching his attention. In his haze, Keith saw it as blue. Pale blue, softer and gentler than the rest of the blues in here, but with more vibrancy and life in one motion than all of them combined. It pulsed in time with the beat of the music like the ocean’s waves pulse with the rhythm of the Earth. 

It’s host bore a trimmed mess of brown hair, an arch and mischievous smile, and the kind of grace to be expected from a half-drunk boy on a Friday night. Keith watched fondly as his hips swayed amidst his company, his shirt pulling up along his waist every time he raised his hands to praise the sun, revealing honey-brown skin. He was beauty, if beauty was intoxication and promiscuity at one in the fucking morning.

For nearly a half hour, Keith had been watching this kid. He’d remained in the same place that entire time, shifting from girl to girl and boy to boy, fawning over each one until the song changed. For nearly half an hour, Keith had waited for his courage and the vodka to kick in, to send his feet moving forward and his words to follow behind. Impulsiveness was his drive, on a normal evening, but not when fear got in the way. Fear, of the rejection that would ensue should he open his mouth, of the clash between their energies—Keith’s so flaming red, so volatile, and his so awash with the sound of the sea. So he found comfort in observation, in distance, admiring from afar to keep himself safe; if the evening went as he desired it to, he would wind up with passion in his bed for a fleeting moment, and a lonely, broken heart once the sun bid him good morning. He was not about to let that happen again.

As fate would have it, he never needed to move of his own volition—life shoved him headfirst down the path of no return, in the form of night gremlin Pidge Gunderson headbutting Keith’s shoulder.

“You… have been standin’ here f’r n’our n’ah half,” she declares over the blasting sound, voice slurring more and more harshly as her sentence progresses to the end of its tangent. Her snapback was crooked, her shirt looking rather disheveled. Keith never got a chance to take a good look, but he was pretty sure she only had on one shoe, the other dangling from her right hand. “You’ve got to get out there.”

“And do what?” Keith shouts back, ears pounding. He takes a sip of his drink, putting bitterness behind the action. “I don’t know anyone!”

“S’the point!” Pidge grins, reaching out with both hands to peel Keith off the wall, yanking on his shirt to get him to follow her down into the pit. “Go mingle!”

Keith’s feet drag as Pidge forcibly removes him from the safety of his secluded wall to the vulnerability of the pit. It reeks of sweat and at least fifty different kinds of perfume, all washing over Keith like a tidal wave. He wrinkles his nose and plants himself on the outskirts of the fray, where Pidge lets go of him, casting a pouting look over her shoulder. She disappears amidst the people, who suck her inside their midst, absorbing her light and her energy until the only remnant of her is her fallen shoe on the dance floor.

Nerves crawling up his skin, Keith searches for the nearest wall to glue himself to, until the crowd engulfs him too. He shuffles awkwardly from person to person, his shoulders drawn and his free out in front of his body to protect from any and all unwanted attention. The other curls in towards his chest to keep his drink steady. He murmurs apologizes and acknowledgements as he tries to meander his way out of this mess, weaving backward and forward, side to side, until his shoulder collides heavily with a broad back. Rum and coke slosh unceremoniously over the lip of the glass, straight onto the floor and Keith’s shirt. He glances over, ready to curl his lip in irritation until he sees his new company.

The boy turns to peek at Keith from over his shoulder, and his eyes are just as blue as the glowsticks that hang loosely from his neck and his arms, the reflection illuminating them and all their majesty. This close, Keith can smell him—not just his skin or his hair or anything, but _him_ , his musk, barely hidden by shower-fresh deodorant. His cheeks are dusted with freckles, which pop up sparsely around his neck and disappear in clusters underneath his grey T-shirt. His army-green bomber is cinched tightly around his waist, jeans skinny but loose on his hips and nearly as distressed as Keith’s soul. He was six feet of crooked smile, maybe a hundred and forty pounds of broad shoulders and thin, curved hips, and not a single ounce of wariness in approaching a perfect stranger.

“Whoa there, sorry,” comes his greeting, barely audible under the din and ringing out clear in Keith’s ears. Blinking, Keith pivots and takes a step back, hands still raised.

“S’fine,” he assuages, feeling panic begin to set in. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

“That’s a shame,” the boy tuts, stepping closer and flashing a wide smirk. “I thought you were tryna get my attention.”

A chill settles over Keith as he realizes— _this is a game._ This isn’t real life anymore. The real world is outside, in the silence, where the smells reek of nature and people fall in love right out of high school, where the finicky, cutthroat law of adolescent sex drive is not applicable or tolerated within public view. In here, life happens within hours. You’re born into the neon lights, you’re raised at the bar, you’re schooled by your drinks, you make a career out of forgetting your problems to the same monotonous dubstep song over and over again, you fall in love for an instant with a drunk stranger, and you die the moment you step outside. In here, Keith has a choice; play this crazy game of life or lose.

Keith never lost.

“Maybe I was,” he tries, testing the waters of flirtation as something inside him clicks into gear. The boy blinks, slow and languid, and it’s somehow endearing.

“Well, you’ve got it now,” he draws, and beneath that tequila-scented slur is a note of an accent, something as old as the ocean and temperamental as a hurricane. “The name’s Lance.”

Lance. Of course. How very fuckboyish.

“Keith,” Keith responds in time, gaze flicking over the boy—Lance’s figure. Confidence begins blooming in his chest, expanding as he takes a deliberate breath, and spreads to each corner of his body, prickling along his veins. “I’ve actually been watching you from up there for a little while.” As he speaks, he points to the upper balcony, only faintly aware of just how creepy that sounded.

Luckily, Lance didn’t seem to mind. Just the opposite, in fact, as he chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling up a bit and dimples forming at the crease of his cheeks.

“Geez… not sure if I’m weirded out or flattered,” he admits, taking another step closer. The people at their sides hadn’t seemed to notice they were stationary in a sea of moving parts, simply oscillating around them to the rhythm. In their midst, Keith felt both daunted and safe, completely lost and totally contained. He blamed the alcohol.

“Let’s go with the latter,” he tries. “I like the way you move.”

Whether Lance heard him, he wasn’t sure, but just watching the minute changes in his expression was enough to tug Keith further and further into whatever tipsy fantasy he’d built up for himself. The way his eyes brighten up with intrigue while darkening around the fringe of his pupils, dilated.

“D’ya now?” Lance chirps, a gilded laugh on the edge of his words. “Well, I like the way you talk. Let’s say we go somewhere quieter?”

That was the cue Keith had been waiting for, the moment he’d been craving, but now that it was here, he froze still like a deer in the headlights. It wasn’t until Lance brushed by him, fingers gliding over the back of his palm and wrapping deftly around his wrist, pulling him firmly but gently out of the crowd, that Keith actually snapped to attention.

His eyes train to Lance’s, flicked back on him, the way he wanted it. Lance’s attention should be on him tonight.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Keith agrees, a devilish grin painting its way over his features. “Where to?”

Lance’s eyes go dark and serious, but that playfulness stays in his face. That expression, that pure expression of all the sinful things in the world rolled into one—the eyes that begged to see you at your grittiest, the lips that smiled waiting for a dirty kiss to wipe them clean, that body language that cried out strip me, take me away from here, make me yours.

“Put down your drink,” Lance orders, “and lead the way.”

\--

They lasted maybe fifteen full minutes before they were toppled over one another in the back of an Uber, the driver barely paying them any mind. They make out heatedly until the ride pulls to a final halt outside of Keith’s apartment building. Keith couldn’t remember telling the driver to go there, so he laughed wildly in time with Lance, the punchline of the joke lost on the poor grad student who barked at them for payment three times before receiving a crumpled ten dollar bill and speeding away.

The trip to Keith’s room is full of the murky buzz of alcohol and small talk, laced with promises of screwing each other into the wall like a drill. Keith stumbles and peels away layers of clothes—a jacket, a flannel, a tight black tee, until his bare skin touches the air and meets Lance’s hands. They’re firm against his sides, soft on his hips, and they press him hard into the wood of the door as they slam it shut.

Lance tastes like tequila and summertime on the boardwalk, saltwater taffy in his kiss and the burn of sunlight in his fingertips on Keith’s body. Everywhere he touches melts Keith like a popsicle in a heatwave, so he cools off by running his greedy palms up Lance’s shirt, rucking the fabric over his fingers and tearing it off without much resistance.

They stutter to the bed, the mattress creaking as the back of Keith’s knees hit it and he topples over, Lance straddling his crotch and grinding down on his growing erection. Keith gasps, not ready for the stimulation, and bucks back up into it, wrapping his arms around Lance’s neck and yanking him down for another sloppy kiss.

“Yeah, baby, just like that,” he mutters as Lance breaks away to drag his lips like knives down Keith’s neck, sucking at his pulse and licking over his collar. Keith’s fingers dig into the dark bronze skin of Lance’s back, running up and down those strong shoulders, slotting between the blades, carding up through his hair.

Lance grinds happily once again, a chuckle rising from his chest, promising that this was only the beginning. “Didn’t peg you for a bottom,” he teases, glancing up with wide, curious eyes as he straightens to unbuckle Keith’s jeans.

“M’not,” Keith admits, a bit of intoxication in his lopsided grin. It was true, largely, he wasn’t much to bottom when it came to these kinds of escapades. But it had been a few months and he needed someone to fuck him up, and good. “I make an exception for pretty boys.”

“How charming,” Lance draws, pulling Keith’s cock out of his underwear and slowly beginning to pump him, “to know that you think so highly of me.”

Braced on his elbows, Keith’s head drops back between his shoulders, swears on his lips and in his breath. “ _Fuck,_ don’t… don’t let it go to your head,” he tries, enjoying their banter. “You’re not as special as you think.”

Most of the boys Keith beds would pout at that and start a fight, but Lance just smiles wickedly, lowering himself down to drag his tongue agonizingly slow over the head of Keith’s cock.

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that after I fuck you into next week,” he promises.

Keith hadn’t set out to get the blowjob of his life that night, but sometimes these things happen, and sometimes, you just have to roll with them, appreciate them for what they are. Half the time he wasn’t sure whether or not he should be aroused, angry, or fearful of the amount of power connecting with him in the most intimate way possible—Lance had the skill of someone who did not fuck around, the deft fingers and trained tongue of someone with too much practice. Someone dangerous, to fall in love with. He brings Keith to the brink, and it’s like he can read it in the air, because he stops just before Keith is about to come, licking over his lips and smiling, satisfied with his work.

A low whine drags angrily out of Keith’s mouth, and he tries reaching down to alleviate the twisted pleasure in his stomach, but Lance cuts him off, grabbing both wrists and pushing them hard above his head.

“Ah ah ah, no-no,” he sings, “we’re not done. Where’s your lube?”

Keith huffs, rolling his nose in irritation. “What makes you think I’ve got any?”

“Literally everything about you,” Lance responds, already leaning back across the bed to rummage around in Keith’s nightstand. He pulls out a half-full bottle and fishes around for a few more seconds in search of a condom. “You’re not slick, you know.”

“Not yet,” Keith laughs, wriggling his hips up in search of some friction. “Hurry it up, pretty boy.”

There’s little time wasted between them in further preparations—the buzz of their drinks from earlier shortened their patience, and neither one was too keen over anything to do with going “low and slow”. Lance slicks up a few fingers, letting the excess dribble down over Keith’s asshole before pressing one digit in up to the hilt.

Being relatively unused to it, Keith seizes, a gasp flying past his lips. His legs lift and try to close on impulse, but Lance braces them on either side of his waist, working his finger gently before adding another.

“Feel good?” he asks, curling his fingers in tandem with one another. “You like that, yeah?”

He did, but he wasn’t about to give Lance that satisfaction. With a pouting look and furrowed brow, Keith turns his head, moaning into a pillow to soften the sound. Lance’s fingers were practiced, and if they echoed any promise of what was to come, then Keith didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep up the tough guy act.

Pressing a kiss to his chest and working over towards his nipple, Lance sucks the bud of skin into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue and grazing it with his teeth. His fingers speed up incrementally until Keith is gasping for more, face flushed, body trembling—and just like that, the act was dropped.

“ _Oh fuck,_ come on, just _fuck me_ already, _christ,_ just fuck me!” Keith begs, losing his own battle. Lance groans at the notion, whispering gibberish promises into his skin, punctuating his last one with a giggle.

“You’re insatiable,” he chides as he pulls off of Keith’s chest, removing his fingers carefully. He tears the condom wrapper at their side open with his teeth, holding it there as he unfastened his jeans, kicking them off and onto the floor with a loud crack where the buckle hits the hardwood. Keith watches as he sits back on his heels and rolls the condom over himself, concentration in his gaze and a light flush over his freckled cheeks. He slicks it up for good measure, pausing once he’s done to assess Keith’s situation.

“Here, lift up,” he orders, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it under Keith’s lumbar, hips raised up just enough to meet up neatly with Lance’s. A moment of serenity passes over them as he returns position, looming over Keith and bathing him in his warmth and his presence. Keith’s ankles hook over Lance’s shoulders, toes playing at his hair.

“Well,” he pushes, already impatient, “go for it, pretty boy.”

Keith thought he was ready, but nothing really prepares you to get fucked roughly and thoroughly good the way Lance could fuck you. Every inch of him was burning, his skin the scintillating sun over the water, his moans the crashing of the waves on the shoreline. His touch was the riptide, dragging Keith out to sea. His energy was the water, surrounding and engulfing and drowning.

Every time he bottomed out, Keith jolted, a cry forced from his lips, either with Lance's name etched in it or some kind of praise. The rest of the world faded from Keith’s view, his vision tunneled. The only things in sight were Lance’s eyes, framed by mussed hair, half-lidded behind thick lashes. All he could hear was his own noises, mingled harmoniously with Lance’s grunts and moans, accompanied by the rough slap of skin against skin. All he felt was Lance, Lance on his mouth, Lance on his skin, Lance inside of him—and it was all he needed.

He fucked Keith until all Keith knew was his name and the stretch of his cock, stars flickering behind his eyes. He was almost sad to feel that white-hot coil of arousal in the pit of his navel expand wildly and dissolve him into a shouting mess. He came hard into Lance’s waiting hand, raking his nails down his back and crying out harshly into the dark.

Lance was soon to follow, straightening up and driving himself in and out, quickening his pace in a last-ditch effort to finish himself off. Keith can feel the added heat inside of him, watches in a half-dazed state as Lance stiffens, mouth dropping open and hips jerking as he comes. He buries his face in Keith’s collar, groaning needfully into soft white skin, sticky with sweat.

When they pull apart, Keith whines desperately, scrabbling for Lance to return, to fill him back up, to keep him anchored. Lance assuages him with low, sloppy kisses to his mouth, his face, his neck, before pulling away, leaving Keith cold and singular in the wake of being so melded with another entity.

Sleep overtakes him as Lance returns to the bed, tissues in hand to tidy Keith up a bit. “So,” he begins, tossing them into the wastebasket at the corner of the room and crawling under the covers. Keith’s back is flush to his torso, warm and inviting. “Still think I’m not special?”

Keith cuddles close to Lance’s aura, grinding back a little bit purposefully on his hips. He hooks one of Lance’s arms over his waist, lacing their fingers together and bringing it up to his chest.

“Mm… no,” he decides, feeling Lance shift uncertainly behind him. Craning his neck around, smile plastered to his face, he pecks Lance’s nose.

“You’re not just special,” he murmurs, “you’re one of a kind.”

Lance’s chuckle is the last thing Keith registers before his eyes slide shut for the last time that evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Then he wakes up with a hangover and lance isnt there and hes like FUCK but then he goes into the kitchen and sees lance trying to make breakfast and hes like wow that was nice then they get married the end


End file.
